


she's morphine (queen of my vaccine)

by Luthor



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Minor Character Death, funeral au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When it comes to Franky, Erica is fast accepting, whatever this thing is between them, it’s inevitable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	she's morphine (queen of my vaccine)

**Author's Note:**

> Title credit goes to Alt J's 'Breezeblocks'. 
> 
> This is too long and I hate that I can't stop thinking about this pairing. Goddamn.
> 
> Spoilers for 1x10, set in an alternative S2.

Erica calls her in the morning after she hears the news.

It’s still early and sunlight filters in strong through the gaps in the open blinds. A beam of light catches Erica’s face as she sits forward in her chair, turning her blue eyes iridescent. She squints against it, calls out, “come in,” to the knock at her door, and stands.

Franky enters as she’s closing the blinds. Her footsteps sink into the carpet in a way that Erica’s pointed heels cannot, soft-soled converse taking on the dull thuds of a prowling panther. Erica’s fingers tangle in the string from the blinds; she gives a sharp tug, pulling her office into shade.

When she turns around again, the door to her office has been closed and Franky is slouching in the chair opposite her desk. Her feet are pitched wide apart, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. There’s a mischievous look in her green eyes that makes Erica’s breath pause in her throat.

“Cosy,” Franky grins, nodding to the blinds, and Erica lets the string loose from her fingers as quickly as if she were hiding evidence.

“Franky, I’ve got some news.”

She makes her way around to her desk. With that barrier between them, she feels surer in herself; she on one side and Franky on the other. It’s how they were always meant to be, and so, of course, Franky challenges it.

Leaning forward in her chair, adopting an interested pose, Franky sets her elbows on the edge of Erica’s desk and lifts her head as though to say, _have at it_. The position pops her cleavage directly into view, and Erica’s eyes stray to the scar above the tattoo on her breast before she can catch herself. When she looks back up, there’s a knowing smirk on Franky’s lips.

“I—” Erica’s tongue sticks when she tries to speak. “I wanted to get you alone to tell you.”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. If she were thinking clearly, she’d have known that. Franky’s lips stretch into an easy grin, and Erica lets her eyes settle there, for just a moment. It’s so easy to give in when it comes to Franky, but this entire conversation depends on her not doing that.

 “I’m flattered.”

Franky’s eyebrows raise high on her forehead, but her smirk subdues when she realises that Erica isn’t playing their game. They’ve fallen into a pattern that’s set a template for their conversations; Erica unwittingly gives her the opportunity to make a suggestive comment, Franky takes it, and Erica works doubly hard to drag them back on her intended course.

(Or, Franky thinks, there are those times when she outdoes herself, when Erica stares across at her with bright, sharp eyes and a smirk that she’s doing her best to contain, her resolve so close to cracking, that sighed _Franky…_ )

But today, there’s neither.

Franky panics. Her eyes land on Erica’s left hand, the engagement ring shining in the din of her office, but still alone.

“It’s about your father,” Erica says, like a lifeline (for whom, she isn’t exactly sure).

That draws Franky’s attention back. For a moment, her eyes are blank and then incredulous. She sits back in her chair and lets out a huffed sigh that could sound amused if she weren’t so irritated. “I thought I made it clear that I never wanted to see—”

“He’s dead.”

Franky’s eyes shoot to hers, and for a second there’s a look in them that’s so painfully shocked that Erica doubts herself. She could have done that better, she thinks, and threads her fingers together on top of her desk.

“We were notified yesterday evening. I didn’t—I didn’t want to tell you in front of everybody. I’m sorry.”

Her mind flashes back to the last time she’d had to do that, to Bea Smith’s screams, the way she’d had to hold her breath to keep from shaking as she delivered the news. Erica might be on the other side of the bars, but she knows how the inmates in this prison work. Any sign of weakness from Franky so soon after Jacs’ death would mean trouble.

Across from her, Franky shrugs her shoulders as if the news can roll straight off them.

“Wouldn’t have made a difference,” she says, sniffs too loudly, jams her tongue into her cheek. She holds Erica’s gaze with an intensity that Erica won’t back down from. “Is that it?”

“Franky…” Erica leans closer, lets out a small breath. “The funeral’s in two weeks. I’d like to assess your chance of getting compassionate leave.”

Franky shakes her head.

“Don’t bother.”

“You won’t get another chance to do this. Please, just… take some time to consider what I’m offering.”

“I’ve considered it,” Franky shrugs. “Was that all?”

Erica catches the tip of her tongue between her teeth. It’s not like she can force Franky to stay, she concedes with a sigh, and nods her head. Franky doesn’t waste time in standing. She’s out of Erica’s office before either of them can say a goodbye, the door closing soundly behind her.

Alone, again, Erica rubs at her temples and sighs.

 

She doesn’t let it go that easily, and although Franky seems annoyed with her because of that, Erica doesn’t doubt that she expected this.

Franky stops her in the yard, again. A chorus of calls come from the women still playing basketball, but Franky only throws them the ball and jogs up to the fence. Her hands grip it on either side of her face, rattling it, her smile bright and unaffected. Erica refrains from shielding her eyes from the sun as she stops just in front of her.

Franky is quick to take in the trousers and the fitted blazer. She wets her bottom lip and then bites it, nose scrunching up a little as she crows, “In this weather, Miss Davidson? I’m disappointed. I was imagining you’d be in something a little… less.”

The implication is clear, but Erica has made an art of not rising to Franky’s bait.

“Have you thought any more about my offer?” she asks, squinting against the light. Franky’s smirk instantly recedes.

“Have you thought any more about continuing our tutoring sessions?”

“Not today, Franky.”

Franky shrugs, _there’s your answer_ , and releases the fence. Erica watches as she re-joins the game and then carries on her way.

 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Franky winds her way back into Erica’s office. It’s inevitable, by now, that this would happen. Erica can’t think of a better word to describe her and Franky, _inevitable_ , and it terrifies her.

“This is your last chance,” Erica says, straightens her spine so that she’s a head taller than Franky. “If I don’t process the application today, you’ll never make it to your father’s funeral.”

“Why do you care so much?”

Erica bites her tongue.

“Seriously,” Franky insists, “whether I watch as they dump him in the ground or not, it’s not gonna make any difference. Dead’s dead.”

“It will make a difference. This will be your last chance to see him, before he’s—”

“I’ve said my goodbyes already. Him being dead doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything,” Erica says, leaning further into her desk until Franky is forced to hold her gaze. “This isn’t about forgiveness, this is about acceptance. Needing closure doesn’t make you weak, Franky.”

Across from her, Franky jams her tongue into her cheek and stares sullenly down at the business cards on Erica’s desk.

“You really want me to go to this thing, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Alright. On one condition.” Franky meets Erica’s eyes, watches them go from defeated to intrigued. “I want you to come with me.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s my final offer.” Franky pushes herself out of the chair as she says it, arching her eyebrows at Erica and shrugging as though she’s already won, as though she thinks that it’s that one step too far that Erica won’t take. “I’ll see myself out, yeah?”

Erica watches her leave, her gaze trained on the door as it closes behind her. Incredulous, she shakes her head (and then makes a mental note to drop off a funeral-worthy outfit at the dry cleaners’ before the weekend).

 

In the end, it’s a lie that does it.

“I’ve formed trust with her,” Erica tells Channing. “I know how to keep her settled. Franky’s not stupid, she won’t want to cause a scene, not there.”

He hesitates and Erica thinks, for one awful second, that this isn’t going to happen.

“Fine, but you’re not going alone.”

 

Erica comes to Franky’s cell to collect her, purposefully early.

H Block is unusually quiet for just after breakfast, the television switched off, the women in their rooms or elsewhere. She steps outside of Franky’s and peers in through the open door. Franky’s alone inside, her back partially to Erica. She’s wearing a pair of tight, black trousers and a three-quarter-length  t-shirt; not the outfit she’d come into the prison with, but Erica had pulled some strings.

(Erica has been doing a lot of that these days, she realises.)

When Franky notices her, she can’t quite manage a smile. It throws Erica off for a second, and then confirms that this is really happening. She nods her head in greeting, a silent _are you okay?_

Franky dips her head back.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”

Erica hesitates.

She turns back to the officer behind her, tells him a murmured, “give me a minute,” and steps into Franky’s cell. The action comes as a surprise, she realises, as she catches Franky’s wide eyes. She hopes the officer has spared them a moment of privacy, and this is confirmed when Franky steps into her, too close for two people in their positions.

“Cold feet?”

“No.” Erica shakes her head. “And you?”

“Nah.”

“Franky, I realise I may have pushed you into this,” she says slowly, guiltily, and Franky smirks at the admission. “If I’ve made a mistake… if you really don’t want to go, you can tell me. This is your decision.”

“And miss out on our day trip?” She looks down at herself, and Erica obediently follows her gaze. “Be a shame to waste _all this_ , don’t you think?”

Erica hears her answer, though. The easy return to familiar ground is all she needs to reassure her. “Then let’s get going,” she says, and takes that necessary step outside of Franky’s personal space.

 

The church is nothing special, as far as churches go, but Franky has had little opportunity to be inside of one in all of her twenty six years. She takes in the windows with unhidden appreciation, stained glass that leaves patterns across the pews when the sun streaks through them. The colours look too bright, unreal almost, and Franky wonders if this is a just a side effect of her temporary freedom.

A legal high.

Erica stops beside her, their shoulders almost touching. She hears Franky take a deep breath in and looks past her to where people are beginning to take their seats. The aisle clears, eventually, leaving a runway down to the open casket. Franky feels Erica’s gaze slide over her.

“Would you like a moment?”

Franky looks briefly at her left wrist; she can still feel cool metal digging into her skin, but it’s a phantom sensation. The handcuff had been removed once they entered the church. Franky doesn’t know if that’s protocol, or if Erica had had a word.

When she looks up again, Erica is watching her sympathetically, her eyes scanning Franky’s face as though if she saw a hint of hurt there, she’d soothe it. Franky knows better. Still, when she looks out to the open casket something tight and cold wraps itself around her ribs.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to let me out of your sight,” she says, congratulates herself when her voice doesn’t shake, but Erica takes the hint.

They walk down the aisle together, leaving the officer in the pews and drawing the attention of the funeral congregation. Franky thinks some of them must be relatives, but had recognised no one in her quick sweep of the crowd. She doesn’t have to wonder if any of them recognise her; the second they reach the casket, the pews are rife with whispers.

Erica pretends she can’t hear them. She stops a step or two before Franky, eyes trained on her back, giving her a moment. (She’d call it the least she can do, but that isn’t true.) Franky peers in at her father for three seconds, maybe longer, and then steps back.

“I want to get out of here.”

Erica steps forward, alarmed.

“What?”

“I want to go. You can take me back now.”

“We’ve only just arrived.”

Franky’s eyes are dark and fierce when she turns to her, her voice catching in her throat when she says, “And now I’d like to leave.”

“Franky.”

She’s unmoving, Erica realises, unwilling to back down. Erica panics, hesitates, and then has an idea that she doubts will work. Neither of them has compromised particularly well in the past.

“Let’s take a breather.”

Erica’s hand finds Franky’s arm. She nods towards a dimly lit alcove where a toilets sign has been nailed to the wall. Franky follows her gaze and sighs, her body deflating beneath Erica’s touch. She nods her head.

 

The ‘toilets’ turn out to be one small room dominated by a toilet, singular. Erica perches on top of the closed lid of it while Franky paces, one hand to her forehead, her breath coming rough and frustrated.

Erica watches her not unlike she’d watch a caged lion whose cage she’s just been hurled into. She eyes the door, left purposefully unlocked, and wonders briefly if it was a mistake bringing Franky in here. If Franky decides to run, Erica wouldn’t get very far in her heels.

“You’ll not get another chance to do this,” she says, finally, hoping to distract Franky.

Franky stops pacing. “Yeah, you said,” she grits out, and stares past Erica to a spot on the wall, one hand rubbing the knuckles on the other. “This was pointless.”

“It’s not pointless.”

Franky scoffs loudly.

“It’s not,” Erica insists. “It’s… it’s cathartic. It’s closure, letting every expectation or regret lay to rest. You might think that you deserve to carry all of this pain around with you, Franky, but you don’t.”

Franky stares at her for a moment longer and then sighs, letting the fight leave her. Erica tenses up and almost slips straight off the toilet lid when Franky joins her, squeezes one arse cheek on and pushes one of Erica’s off. Erica is about to protest, but Franky only drops her head into her hands and goes still.

They’re too close together for Erica to pretend that she can’t feel Franky’s laboured breathing, their bodies connecting from shoulder to knee. Erica has to remind herself why they’re here before she can read too far into the way her body flushes at the contact.

“Who did you lose?” Franky asks eventually, words muffled by her hands.

Erica thinks about lying. It’s second nature, by now, to give answers that distance herself from the context. If she can depersonalise them, then others can’t use the information against her. It’s a tactic she uses often with Franky, and she surprises herself now when she gives an unguarded reply.

“My mother.”

Another sigh.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Erica takes advantage of the way that Franky has pitched herself forward, turning her face to observe her while Franky cannot do the same. Dark hair obscures Franky’s face, but Erica can see the way her fingers fidget. She reaches out to them, lays her palm over both of Franky’s and hopes it does something to help.

“If you really don’t want to do this,” she says, “I’ll get you out of here.”

Just like that.

Franky tilts her head to see her face. Maybe it’s the sincere concern that she sees there that has her shaking her head. Her hands shift beneath Erica’s, knuckles grazing a soft palm.

“No, I’m ready.”

 

By the time they leave the toilets, the funeral has started and Franky casts Erica a look.

They’re on the wrong side of the church, a row of pews between them and where the officer has taken a seat. Erica considers crossing over, but doesn’t want to interrupt the ceremony. Instead, she touches Franky’s wrist and guides her onto an empty bench. They’re a fair few rows in front of the officer here, and when Erica turns back to see him on the other side of the room she can tell that he’s not happy about it.

“Everything alright?” Franky asks quietly, expecting as much.

Erica just nods her head.

Like that, the funeral continues. Franky is a calm presence beside her, solid if subdued, and the service passes quickly and without incident. Erica should have known that it wouldn’t last. She should have expected something to go wrong, that it was – what was that word, again? _Inevitable_.

“And now,” the minister announces, “I’d like to end the service with a word from Alan Doyle’s daughter.”

Erica isn’t sure who tenses up quicker. She turns to Franky with a look of alarm, and Franky just about manages to hold in an accusatory shout. Her eyebrows are drawn tight together, an _I didn’t agree to this_ quick on her lips, when there’s movement at the front of the church.

They turn to watch as a girl with mousy brown hair stands from the pews, rubbing at her eyes. She can’t be older than thirteen, Erica thinks, just as Franky realises the same and her back goes ramrod straight.

Anticipating something, Erica slaps a hand down on Franky’s knee, holding her in place. Franky practically vibrates beneath her throughout the girl’s speech, her body wound tight, her fists clenching and unclenching against her knees.

The second the service is complete, Franky snaps. She’s out of her seat with enough momentum that she’s halfway towards the exit before Erica can slip out of the pews. She casts a glance towards the officer in alarm, but he’s already quick on Franky’s heels. _Shit_ , she thinks, and jogs the rest of the way, not caring if her heels draw the attention of the entire congregation.

She catches up to them outside, even allows herself a moment of relief when she realises Franky hasn’t ran past the church grounds. She’s breathing deeply, one hand against a wall, bent over as though she’s waiting to throw up.

“Give her a moment,” Erica tells the officer as he pulls the handcuffs off his belt. She steps past him and up to Franky’s side.

She does not touch her, will not provoke a reaction, but her presence seems to be enough. After a moment, Franky takes a final deep breath in and straightens. She does not look to Erica, but focuses her gaze on the furthest fixed spot she can see, a trick she’d learned to cope with motion sickness.

“You can take me back now,” she says, eventually, and accepts the cuff that’s clamped around her wrist.

 

For once in her life, Franky Doyle unquestioningly does what is asked of her.

The return to Wentworth is a blur. She recalls a strip search, but the memory is so foggy that she isn’t entirely sure if it happened that same day, or the week before. When her body finally relinquishes its autopilot control, she finds herself sitting opposite the governor’s desk in her familiar blue uniform.

She blinks at the empty chair in front of her, frowns, and then twists her gaze around to the window. Outside the office, she sees Erica talking to her secretary. A moment later, the secretary stands and walks out of view. Franky is still staring out of the window when Erica returns. She clears her throat, but Franky does not look at her, and so Erica sighs and sits and waits.

She does not look at _that corner_ , even though the sight of it in her peripheral alone is enough to make her tense, like resisting scratching a very persistent itch. She won’t give in to it.

(Erica should be glad of that.)

She had pushed Franky too far, tested her trust and watched it shatter. She’d always expected Franky would do the same, retaliate – it was _inevitable_ , she thinks, her least favourite word – and still she is recovering from the experience of having her safety blanket ripped to shreds right in front of her.

She doesn’t know what it means, then, that she still can’t quite manage to let Franky go.

“I’m so sorry you had to find out like that,” she says eventually, her voice quiet. The office is still in shade, and entire level seemingly silent around them save for the ticking of the clock on Erica’s office wall.

Franky just lets out a loud sigh.

“If there’s—” Erica starts to say, but then something shifts in Franky that makes her stop.

Turning away from the window at last, Franky presses a hand over her eyes and slowly, like a coiling spring, bends into herself. Erica watches in confusion, at first, and then alarm as Franky’s shoulders begin vibrating– no, shaking. She’s out of her seat before she can stop herself, around the desk and crouching by Franky’s feet.

“Franky,” she whispers, a hand going to her knee, another her shaking forearm. “ _Franky_.”

Franky only continues to cry, and so Erica lets her, thinks she’d best get it all out now before she has to return downstairs. She’d be easy pickings today, or worse, Erica thinks, distracted enough to do something that could push back her parole even further.

Finally, she forces herself to stop. Erica watches her as she sits up a little straighter, removes her hands from her face and starts wiping the tears away from her cheeks. There’s a smudge of black beneath her eyes, but Franky expects it, and sweeps it carefully away with her knuckles.

“The last time I saw him,” she starts, rubbing a hand under her nose, “I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel how I did when he left, I wanted him to think I didn’t give a shit about him, that _I’d_ abandoned _him_ this time. I wanted it to haunt him, for him to have that stuck with him forever, not letting him move on because _I couldn’t_.”

She turns to Erica helplessly. The anger eases off her face; she looks so young and hurt that Erica feels her throat clamp shut.

“He took that away from me, too.”

Erica isn't exactly sure what she's doing when she reaches out to her, except Franky is hurting and Erica hasn’t felt this desperate to help somebody else in her entire life. Her fingers meet one cool, damp cheek. She watches as her thumb slides over a cheekbone, catching a loose tear, and doesn’t miss the way that Franky’s eyes close or the sigh that shudders past her parted lips.

Then those green eyes open and Erica is drawn inexplicably towards them.

When Franky leans in, she’s not doing it to prove a point. Not like last time. Their lips meet and it’s soft, so soft, so unlike Mark’s stubbly kisses that Erica can almost justify why this is okay. Franky’s lips are still wet with tears and taste like salt. Erica’s, lipstick and coffee.

The first brush of lips has Franky exhaling out, her body shuddering so hard that Erica thinks she’ll start crying again, but she doesn’t. She’s more insistent after that. Franky knows what she wants to make her feel better, and Erica is helpless to deny her. The next kiss is more sure of itself, Franky's lips closing around Erica's plump bottom one, and then again, and then her top lip, and the corners of her mouth.

Erica is first to pull back, this time, and Franky wonders if it's punishment for how that very first kiss started. She stares at Franky not with alarm, but forceful intention, a _this can't happen again_ that Franky will believe when she sees it.

Slowly, Erica retracts her hands and stands up. She straightens her skirt from where it has ridden up her legs and reaches across her desk for a tissue. She hands it over to Franky and they both pretend that their hands aren't shaking as they meet.

“I'll have a guard escort you back to your Block,” Erica says, putting careful distance between them as she takes a seat once again behind her desk.

Franky clears away her smudged make up and doesn't respond. When she's done, she balls the tissue up and aims for the bin, gets it in in one go, and rubs her knuckles under her nose.

“I am sorry about your father, Franky,” Erica tells her, but the vulnerability in Franky's eyes has gone.

Erica wants to say she misses it, but she knows that it's necessary, knows what kind of danger Franky will put herself in if she returns downstairs with red cheeks and tears in her eyes. In its place, Franky's bravado has returned. She cocks one leg over the other, ankle to knee, and tilts her head to one side.

“My only regret is not making good use of the lock on that bathroom door when we had the chance.”

She even winks, but it doesn't draw a tight smile from Erica this time, because Erica understands this for what it is. Getting back into character. (And just maybe Franky should pursue a career in acting, she thinks.)

Erica stands from her chair and Franky's head tilts back as she passes, following her, her pale throat bared. When Erica stops at the door, Franky rises deliberately, passing too close to Erica as she steps outside of the office.

“Miss Davidson,” she salutes. “Maybe next time we can just do dinner.”

(There, finally, that tight smile that Erica does her best to fight but never quite manages to suppress.)

“Goodbye, Franky.”

Erica stands in her doorway until a guard arrives and disappears with Franky around the corner, until all she can hear of her is that rumbling chuckle and the way her converse bounce off the hard floors (until she knows that Franky is as safe as she'll let herself be in this place), and then closes the door.

She returns to her desk with a sigh, sits heavily and with one hand rubbing the knot in the back of her neck. She thinks about Franky and eyes the corner of her room, the red of the walls a cheerful mockery of how easily her resolve had crumbled. It won’t happen again, Erica promises herself, even if a part of her has already accepted that it’s a lie.

When it comes to Franky, Erica is fast accepting, whatever this _thing_ is between them, it’s inevitable.


End file.
